


With Every Stumble and Each Misfire (I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more)

by Lysippe



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7875877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysippe/pseuds/Lysippe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jillian Holtzmann could write a book about one-sided love affairs. </p><p>She has enough stories to fill a novel or ten, and she’s in the process of writing her latest.</p><p>(Not actually one-sided. Holtzbert endgame.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Every Stumble and Each Misfire (I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more)

**Author's Note:**

> asdfghjkl; I've been banging my head against things with this one for about a week and predictably it came to me when I was half asleep, but I think I got it. This ship is killllllling me. Also, this fic was going to be like 250 words based on one line in part one, but then iliveinfantasies said she wouldn't read it if I was just going to write unrequited love because that's bullshit, so I expanded it and then it grew and became an actual thing. So, yeah. That happened.

**i. Holtzmann**

Jillian Holtzmann could write a book about one-sided love affairs. 

Well, she could if she could write, which she can’t.

But she has enough stories to fill a novel or ten, and she’s in the process of writing her latest.

Because somewhere amidst hushed conversations, lying wrapped deliriously in one another’s arms on the floor of the lab, long after everyone else has gone to bed, and Erin’s penchant for leaning _on_ her shoulder instead of over it to check a calculation or suggest some small tweak to her latest toy, and that confused half-smile she gets every time Holtzmann flirts with her (she tries so hard to remind herself that she flirts with everyone)… somewhere, at some point in time, Jillian Holtzmann fell in love with Erin Gilbert.

And not the silly, romantic comedy, happily-ever-after kind of love, either (because seriously, no). Oh, no. She went and fell head-over-heels with Erin probably-straight-and-definitely-not-in-her-league-anyway Gilbert because hey, why do anything halfway, right? Why just be in love with one of your best (only) friends when you can be _so in love it is physically painful_?

Never let it be said that she was an underachiever.

Which is precisely why Holtzmann takes her work up to the roof from time to time. On those nights where actually just seeing-but-not-touching Erin makes her heart pound so hard in her chest that she thinks she might break a rib; when she can’t bear to be around her because sooner or later she’s just going to kiss her. And Holtzmann is terrible at words and emotions and really anything that isn’t building things or taking things apart or blowing things up, and she pretty much has the gold medal in Falling In Love With The Wrong Girl, but still, she never knew that people could have this many _feelings_ inside them. She doesn’t think she likes it.

And yeah, it’s November. And okay, she’s been outside for several hours now, and it’s probably sometime in the early morning but keeping time is for dudes so who knows. And sure, the bitter pre-winter air stings all the way down to her lungs with every breath, and her fingers are almost too numb with pain to grip her screwdriver, and the sheet metal in her hands burns when she touches it. But it’s still better than being inside, where she doesn’t have those things to distract her enough to _make her feel something else that isn’t this_. Because inside makes her think of Erin; of blue eyes and tiny bowties and _that look_. The one that speaks of confused amusement and curiosity and maybe a little bit of affection, but not the kind that Holtzmann wants (needs) it to be.

That look is going to be the end of her.

So, instead of Dealing With Her Problems Like An Adult (who does that?), Holtzmann does what she does best: she puts on the biggest (craziest) smile she’s got (she’s a firm believer in fake it till you make it), and takes things apart and puts them back together in a more destructive way (because why feel things when you can make things?).

It’s worked out terribly for her so far, but probably less catastrophically than if she went with her other plan, which is to just kiss Erin and see how it goes. Besides, Holtzmann has always been pretty good at being alone, especially when she has explosives (or explosives-to-be) to keep her company.

And that’s when she realizes that she’s not.

From the doorway comes the tired, ever-so-slightly cranky voice belonging to one Erin Gilbert.

“Holtz?”

—

**ii. Erin**

"Holtz?"

It's 2:37 in the morning, and Erin isn't quite sure why, but she is standing on the roof of the fire station in her pajamas, holding a spare sweatshirt and watching while Holtzmann, bare-armed and bleary-eyed, absently screws and unscrews the same bolt over and over again. But it's 2:37 in the morning and Holtzmann wasn't in the lab, or in her bedroom (Erin had only peeked in briefly; privacy isn't something she takes lightly), and Holtzmann is somewhat of a creature of habit (as bizarre and occasionally concerning as those habits may be). And the roof is where she was last, so it’s where Erin checks first.

"What's going on?" Erin asks, taking a tentative step forward. She isn't sure how welcome her presence right now may be, and she's not taking any chances.

"What are you doing up here, Erin?" Holtzmann's voice is weary and bone tired, but not unkind.

 _I missed you_ , Erin thinks. Which is ridiculous because it's not like Holtzmann would otherwise have been with her for any foreseeable reason. Yet she misses the comfort of knowing that she was nearby, nonetheless. But there is no way to explain that without having to explain a whole lot of other things, too. Like why it is so important to her in the first place. So instead, she says, "You weren't inside,” as though that explains anything. But then, Erin doesn’t _want_ to explain anything.

Because as truly awful as she is at relationships (and she really, really is), Erin isn’t stupid. And okay, she didn’t see it coming, and she didn’t feel it happening until it was way too late (she never does), but she can recognize this feeling for what it is: somewhere along the line, when she wasn’t looking, Erin fell in love (she could have sworn she swore off doing that years ago). And she’s let it go on long enough that by this point, Holtzmann is absolutely everything to her (except for Abby and Patty and maybe even Kevin, because she makes a point of not being that kind of person).

“I just needed some fresh air,” Holtzmann says. “Probably not safe to breathe in the lab’s air for extended periods of time.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Erin says, wandering over to the table and tossing the faded MIT sweatshirt at her. It hits Holtzmann in the shoulder and small fingers grab it deftly before it can hit the ground. “That’s what you said five hours ago. Also, it’s freezing and you’re still wearing a t-shirt.” Holtzmann makes a motion to protest, but Erin cuts her off. “I don’t care how messed up your internal thermometer is. Just humor me.”

That has worked for her all of zero times, with anyone, ever. But to Erin’s surprise, Holtzmann pulls the sweatshirt over her head, her only complaint a muffled, “Yes, mom.” When Holtzmann’s head reappears, Erin can’t help herself. She reaches over and tucks a stray curl that has fallen over her goggles back in somewhere approximating the right place (Holtzmann’s hairstyle is deceptively complicated, and her curls are impressively stubborn).

For the briefest of moments, Erin is sure she feels Holtzmann lean her head into her touch. But as quickly as it happens, it’s over, and Holtzmann looks down at the screwdriver in her left hand, spinning it between her fingers.

“Anything I can help with?” Erin asks at last, tentatively placing a hand on her shoulder, gauging Holtzmann’s receptiveness to the contact before pressing her body flush against hers. Holtzmann may not be cold, but Erin is freezing.

“Nah,” Holtzmann says, with a lightness that reaches neither her eyes nor the somewhat forced smile she affects, as though it’s habit more than anything else keeping it there. “I thought a change of scenery might get me some fresh ideas, but so far all I’ve come up with is that that was a stupid idea.”

Erin wants to tell her that it isn’t stupid, but she can’t quite figure out how to say it without sounding like she’s offering up a hollow platitude and nothing more (she tries not to use them on her friends, but years of ass-kissing sometimes die hard). Instead, Erin wraps her arms around Holtzmann’s waist and leans in, reveling for the briefest of moments in the familiar warmth. She’s pretty sure she feels Holtzmann’s breath catch.

And then, before Erin has a chance to process it, Holtzmann is kissing her, two fingers under her chin pressing gently up, and she tastes like honey and smells of strawberry shampoo and motor oil, and Erin had no idea that kissing could feel like sex, but it does, even though it’s messy and Erin’s teeth are still chattering a little and she is both woefully unprepared for this and 10,000% ready. It’s the best first kiss she’s ever had (she hopes it’s not the last). And when it breaks, Erin thinks she could breathe her in forever.

Except that she can’t, because Holtz has already pulled away and is in the process of backpedaling as she can, and Erin isn’t actually listening because _she just kissed Jillian Holtzmann_ and no words have any merit next to that. But she hears the words, “didn’t mean to do that” and “sorry” and “pretend it never happened” somewhere and that gives her pause. _She didn’t mean to._

“Holtzmann,” Erin demands, “ _what do you mean?”_

\---

**iii. Holtzmann**

“I mean,” Holtzmann draws a breath, rocking back and forth on her heels, “that I wasn’t going to just kiss you.”

Erin shrugs, rubbing her hands together through her sleeves, and it’s everything Holtzmann can do not to rub some warmth into her shoulders. “I mean, I would have brushed my teeth first if I had known, but—“

And Holtzmann can tell that every part of her bearing right now says that she isn’t as amused as she should be by the joke, but she can’t help standing there, serious and wide-eyed and silent.

“But it’s as good a plan as any.” Erin nudges Holtzmann lightly. “Got the job done, anyway.”

 “Did it?” Holtzmann asks. She’s not exactly sure what _the job_ was, but she doesn’t feel like it’s done. “Because I’m pretty sure we’re in exactly the same position we were in five minutes ago, except now I’ve kissed you.”

“You’re ignoring a correlating factor,” Erin says matter-of-factly. “ _I kissed you back._ Now hypothesize: what does that typically mean?”

“Are you implying that you can be analyzed by any standard definitions of “typical?” Holtzmann asks, forcing herself to plant her feet back on the ground as she feels some semblance of balance return to her body.

Erin snorts. “No. But I _am_ saying that I, like most people, don’t kiss someone without a reason.”

 _Just say it_. Holtzmann doesn’t even care what _it_ is (well, she cares a lot, actually). She just has to hear _some_ sort of definitive response.

“And your reason is that you’ve always wanted to kiss someone on a rooftop in the middle of the night, overlooking Manhattan?”

Erin scowls in frustration. Holtzmann knows she’s being an ass, but she’s used up her quota of ballsiness for the next decade or so (or at least until she gets some sleep and caffeine).

“Oh, my _God_ , Holtzmann. _I like you_. And I sound like I’m in middle school right now, so I’m going to not talk anymore.”

“Good idea,” Holtzmann says, running one hand slowly down Erin’s sleeve, her fingers slipping into the bottom and gripping Erin’s. “Best one I’ve heard all night, actually.”

“Better idea,” Erin says, burying her face into Holtzmann’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, and go inside, where there is forced heat and a bed with blankets.”

 And Jillian Holtzmann could still write a book or ten about one-sided love affairs, but in defiance of all logic and sound reasoning, it might just have a happy ending.


End file.
